


The Shape of Desire

by LettersByTheLake



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Case Fic, Endeavour Morse Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-19 01:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20322745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettersByTheLake/pseuds/LettersByTheLake
Summary: When a body of a woman is found with her heart missing, a mysterious note from the killer leads Morse to the opera to figure it out before it’s too late.





	1. Chapter 1

A haze of dreariness blanketed the streets of Oxford, a not quite rain chilling the very bones of the late night wanderers who were, at this time, few and far between. It was only just settling towards dusk, but the cloud cover darkened the alleyways prematurely and the warm toned lamplight didn’t quite penetrate the drizzle and mist that thickened the air. 

A scene was unfolding in a back alley, one barely used even at the busiest times of the day, save from a service entrance to  _ McNally’s Groceries _ .  _ McNally’s _ was a small shop from the old days, soon to be closed down as it finally lost its valiantly held battle against the all too successful  _ Richardson’s.  _

Two uniformed policemen held sturdy metal torches to the ground, spotlighting a most gruesome sight for the benefit of one Max DeBryn, who had to admit, even by his standards, it was horrific to behold. 

As Morse arrived at the scene, with a Thursday rather irked anyway due to an interrupted family dinner, there was no usual exchange of ‘good evening’ between the detectives and doctor. The body laid out on the cobbled street created too somber an atmosphere for such pleasantries. 

“Good God,” Thursday uttered. 

The sight was almost too much for the younger detective, and he was forced to turn away and lean on the wall of  _ McNally’s _ to steady himself while the familiar wave of dizziness and nausea threatened to topple him. 

The victim's body lay in a tangled mess, blood mixing with the rainwater as they both flowed down the grooved drain at the side of the alley. Despite the effective drainage system of Oxford’s back alleys, a deep crimson lake still pooled around the corpse and seeped into the cracks of the cobblestones, matting into the long hair of the horribly unfortunate deceased woman, so that the original colour, a bright auburn, was almost indeterminable. The sodden air reeked of it’s sickly sweet stench. 

Her face glowed white in the torchlight and was oddly pristine compared to the gory mess that lay below her neckline. 

Guts and organs and other things that really shouldn’t be seen on the outside of a body were trailing out of the corpse which had seemingly been ripped apart in a horribly frenzied way so that it could almost no longer be identified as human. And surely whatever did this  _ couldn’t  _ have been. 

“I would advise you not to come too close to this one, gentlemen. It’s a bad one,” said DeBryn, mainly for Morse’s sake as his ever paling face was still determinedly turned away from the carcass. 

“An animal, do you think?” said Thursday, voicing Morse’s own contemplations and he forced himself to turn his head to study the horrific scene that would surely become his next ideé fixe.

“Those were my thoughts at first,'' said DeBryn, “but the lacerations on her body, although maniacal, are too clean to be from an animal. They seem to be made by a large knife, a machete would be my guess.”

Thursday let out a deep breath and shook his head in disbelief. 

“Poor sod returning home late from work found her about an hour ago. He’s over there if you want to talk to him,” DeBryn continued. 

Morse happily took the excuse to remove himself from the crime scene and made his way over to the young man huddled and shivering in the back doorway of a residential building a little way down the alley. Under the grey cotton blanket, no doubt given to him by a member of the police crew, he wore his work jacket. He was small of frame and it hung off him in an awkward way making him look younger than perhaps he was - early twenties would be his guess. He had dark hair, quite long, but styled back into fashionable waves. A strand had come loose and fallen into his eyes but he made no move to swipe it back. Instead, he stared at the floor, unmoving and unblinking. Morse knew the tell tale signs of shock, hell, he had felt them often enough. 

Thursday watched him go and was glad his friend and colleague no longer had to stare at the body. The lad was more sensitive than he cared to show and Thursday had come to feel an odd protectiveness over him. 

Thursday saw a lot of truly terrible things in his line of work, it came with the territory. But things like this made him really think about the kind of people who were out there in the world, wandering around, living their lives. He was at a loss to even imagine what kind of outrageously sick personality could kill a fellow human being. Not to mention the sheer hate and rage that would be needed to extensively carve up a woman with a machete. 

“Sex case?” he asked, turning back to the issue at hand. 

“It doesn’t look like it, but I won’t have any more until I can take a further look,” DeBryn replied. 

Thursday nodded, relieved that on top of everything else, that wasn’t something this girl had to go through. 

DeBryn continued his analysis. “There’s no head injuries that I can see, she died from the obvious injuries you see here, a mixture of blood loss and organ failure. I’m afraid she died a rather horrible and painful death.”

“How long has she been lying there?”

“It looks like she was killed perhaps two to three hours ago judging by the state of her body.”

At that moment, Morse returned from collecting a statement from the boy, notebook in hand, and he stopped some distance away from where Thursday was standing, saving himself any unnecessary proximity. Instead Thursday came to him and watched him expectantly. 

“Sounds like he was walking home from work - he’s an intern at the bank - and he saw the body from the street. He went to check it out and called the police. He didn’t see anyone suspicious. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Must’ve got a hell of a shock,'' replied Thursday, looking over at the huddled form on the steps. 

“He’s shaken, but he’ll be alright.”

Morse looked over at the woman again. DeBryn was leaning over her, blocking the worst of the gore, so all he could see was her face, so pale it almost glowed against the dim evening light. Her eyes were closed, and from this angle she could almost be sleeping. 

“Who could have done this?” Morse said quietly, more to himself than a question to be answered. 

“I don’t know, Morse,” he said sadly, “I really don’t know.”

They stood in silence for a couple of minutes, each lost in their own sad thoughts. This really  _ was _ a bad one. 

Max DeBryn called them through the now full darkness, interrupting their quiet contemplations. 

“I’ve found something you might want to see.”

They walked over to where he stood, Morse desperately trying to look anywhere  _ but _ the body. 

“Or actually, it’s more what I _haven’t_ found.” DeBryn told them. “It seems her heart is missing. Whoever did this must have taken it.”

The next morning brought no improvement to the dreary weather and Morse was wrapped up in his woollen coat, the collar up against the drizzly early morning chill. 

The day promised to be a solemn one, but when he shivered as he passed the alleyway next to  _ McNally’s Groceries,  _ it had nothing to do with the cold. 

The bell chimed invitingly and it was a relief to enter the warm little grocery shop. It was a comforting sort of place with all the marks of a well loved family business. Fresh fruit was piled up against one wall and canned goods against another. Fresh bakery items were shown on display near the till where a smiling older woman with a kind face sat. Her hair was a light grey and wispy, several strands escaping the untidy bun piled upon her head. She wore no uniform, except from a green apron with  _ McNally’s Groceries  _ stamped in red, cursive writing along the front. 

She was the kind of woman who could make anywhere feel like home just by gracing it with her presence, and Morse couldn’t help but smile a little as he walked through the door. He loathed the fact that he was there on such a morbid business. 

“How can I help you, dear?” she asked Morse with a smile as he walked purposefully towards the till. 

“DC Morse,” he said, showing his identification. 

“Police?” her smile faded to a worried frown. “Are we in any trouble?”

“No, no, of course not Ms”-

“Mrs McNally dear, my husband owns the shop.”

“Well, Mrs MacNally, I was only wondering if you know who this woman is, I have to warn you it’s a post mortem photograph.”

He showed the small black and white photo that didn’t quite show the full horror of death, she almost looked peaceful. Of course it only showed her face, so her awful tattered torso wasn’t featured. 

As soon as Mrs McNally saw the photo, she gasped and her hand flew to cover her mouth. Her green eyes filled with tears, her smile but a distant memory. 

“I-I’m sorry,'' said Morse, brow furrowed, “did you know her?”

“It’s Claudia,” the woman sniffled, “Er-Claudia Mathers. She- she worked here part time. Oh, she didn’t turn up this morning but I didn’t think anything of it, it’s not too unusual for her you see. Oh my, what happened?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that Mrs McNally, it’s still under full investigation.”

She nodded understandingly but her contained sobs turned into rather more violent ones and she brought out a box of tissues from under the counter. 

“What’s going on here?” boomed a voice, as a rather large, but short man with an impressive ginger moustache entered from a door at the side of the till. 

“Love, what on earth is the matter?” He turned angrily to Morse. “What did you do?” he demanded. 

Morse started to open his mouth to explain and perhaps give a snappy retort in response to the man’s accusation, but luckily Mrs McNally got there first. 

“Oh, no Joe, he didn’t do anything, it’s Claudia. She- she’s-“ 

She burst into tears. 

The man who Morse assumed was Mr McNally looked at him questioningly. 

“I'm afraid that one of your employees - Miss Mathers- was found deceased last night.”

“My, how awful!”, Mr McNally said, his frown thawing into an expression of sadness, “I’m very sorry to hear that, what happened?”

“As I was just saying to your wife, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge any information at the moment, sir.”

“Well that’s ridiculous, she was an employee at my shop!” McNally cried, his voice booming once again. 

“They don’t want to interfere with the investigation dear,” said his wife. 

“I see.”

“Mrs McNally, you said it wasn’t unlike her to not turn up for work. Would you say she was a particularly unreliable personality?” Morse asked. 

“Oh, Claudia was a lovely girl, bright, but yes she could be a little unreliable at times I suppose,” Mrs McNally said. 

“Oh, my wife won’t speak ill of anyone, truth is, that girl was a nightmare. In fact, I told her last week, didn’t I love, I said to her, the next time she comes in late for work, she’s gone. I was just organising an ad in the paper for someone new when you came in.”

“She was often late?”, prompted Morse. 

“Yeah, bad attitude too. Too talented for her own good and boy did she know it.”

“Talented? In what way?”

“She was a singer wasn’t she. Performed down at the Oxford Playhouse some evenings.”

“Oh, she was a lovely singer!”, said Mrs McNally. “She was the lead in the opera running at the moment at the Playhouse - L’Orfeo - I think it’s called. We went to see it a couple of weeks ago, didn’t we dear. Operas aren’t really our thing, but goodness did she have a beautiful voice. Like an angel.”

The opera was one Morse was planning to see before it closed. It was semi professional, the cast mainly comprising of Oxford residents, but it happened to be an opera he liked very much.  _ ‘I suppose I won’t be seeing it now,’  _ he thought sadly. 

“The reports just come through from DeBryn on Claudia Mathers.”

Thursday approached Morse’s desk back at Cowley Station. It was cluttered with paperwork and notes and in the middle of it, Morse was writing up the official statement from the McNally’s. He looked up expectantly at Thursday. 

“I’m afraid he doesn’t have much but he’s confirmed the use of a machete. It seems the killer had no knowledge of basic human anatomy because It looks like they had a right rummage around in there to find the heart.”

Morse made a face. “They must’ve really wanted it.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately they must’ve been wearing gloves. No fingerprints at the scene. I don’t even want to think about what someone would want with a human heart.”

“A souvenir, probably. It’s pretty common to have a murderer take something away from the scene. Though usually it’s a piece of jewellery.”

“Morse, a package came for you,” said Strange as he passed by Morse’s desk on the way to Bright’s office, depositing a parcel wrapped neatly in brown paper. 

“Thanks,” he replied. 

The parcel was small and square, wrapped in brown paper, the words DC MORSE were stamped in uniform, block letters on the top in black ink. 

“You ought to be careful with that,'' said Thursday, looking warily at the small parcel, “we’ve had some nasty things come through the post in the past. We make a lot of enemies in this place.”

Morse nodded and Thursday turned back towards his office. 

Morse  _ was  _ wary of the package. It was anonymous so really could be anything and he  _ had  _ already made several enemies he could think of just from the top of his head. But it was a risk he would have to take. It could be an anonymous tip or a piece of evidence from a case. 

So reluctantly, and with care, he started to unwrap it, first the paper and then the cardboard box that was inside. 

As soon as he caught a glimpse of what was inside, he immediately jumped back as if he had received an electric shock. 

His heart leapt to his throat and his chair clattered to the floor as he stood and backed away, away, as far as he possibly could from the thing in his desk. But he  _ knew  _ what it was, didn't he? He just didn’t want to think about it. 

When his back hit the wall, he pressed up against it. 

“Morse?”

He wondered what kind of person could have sent him something like that. And why  _ him?  _

“Morse?!”

The hand on his shoulder snapped him back to the present and he looked up at Thursday with wide eyes, looking into concerned ones. 

“Oh God”, Jakes said from Morse’s desk, “you better have a look at this sir”. He was stepping back from the package, the back of his hand covering his paling face. “I think- I think it’s a  _ heart.” _

_“_Alright Morse, calm down, it’s alright,'' he said, removing his hand from the young detective’s shoulder. 

The whole station was looking at the unfolding scene by now. 

“Alright, everyone, there’s nothing to see here”, Thursday announced before he too went over to Morse’s desk. 

The other officers went back to their work to at least  _ pretend _ they weren’t watching curiously to see what it was all about. 

Thursday examined the box with the apparent heart inside, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. His expression changed from disgust to curiosity as he reached  _ inside _ the package, taking the hanky from his face and instead covering his hand. He removed a plastic wallet covered in blood. From inside the wallet he removed a small piece of paper. 

“Er- Morse, you better come and take a look at this.”

Morse slowly and reluctantly made his way to where Thursday was stood. 

His heart sank as he read the words scrawled in black ink on the page: 

_ Hubris was her downfall. Her heart could love no one but herself.  _

_ My heart aches for another kill. Find me before it’s too late _ . 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The heart was taken down to DeBryn immediately and was confirmed to be human and that it did, as suspected, belong to Claudia Mathers. The box and everything in it was checked for prints but, alas, none were found. 

The murderer was good. 

The fact that something so horrible had managed to end up on a Police Constables desk did not go unnoticed and Strange, apologetically, insisted that it had come along with the morning post. 

“You alright now, Morse?” asked Thursday. Morse was once again sitting at his desk after having scrubbed it clean twice over. Although shaken from the afternoons events, the shock had all but subsided, leaving him with an itching curiosity as to what the latest clue could mean. 

“Why hubris do you think?” he asked, ignoring Thursday’s concern for his well being, “why not just say pride or vanity?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s just a bit eccentric.”

“Yes, but what if it  _ means _ something. A reference to the Greek tragedy perhaps. It did say it was her downfall. And she  _ was _ cast in a production of L’Orfeo.”

“Well, why don’t you head over to the Oxford Playhouse, one of the PCs was going to question the folks who worked with her there, but it looks like you could be onto something.”

“Yes, I think I will,” he replied, absent-mindedly. 

“Just be careful won’t you?” Thursday asked worriedly, “I’m concerned that that package was addressed to you. They obviously know you’re on the case.”

Morse approached the theatre, an understatedly beautiful building of light brick, with elegant windows and big glass doors. 

A man on a tall ladder was starting to take down a huge poster advertising  _ L’Orfeo _ . The names of the cast were painted down the side, Claudia Mathers being the second after Raymond Sauvant, who he assumed played Orpheus. 

Morse gave the man a nod and continued inside to a fancy lobby, adorned with red velvet and dark mahogany. 

Morse has been there many times before, particularly in his college days. When he wanted a break from the stresses of life, he turned to the elegant, sophisticated, and wholly unrealistic world of opera. The place had a kind of magic about it, a buzz of excitement and wonder. It was rather dulled by the fact that the leading woman in the latest show had been lying in the street with her guts on the pavement only yesterday. 

The room was equipped with a bar, a ticket office, and some wooden chairs and tables. It was empty with the exception of a man at one of the tables with his head in his hands. 

He wore an expensive looking suit without a tie, his brown hair was gelled back to look smart and stylish, but in reality Morse thought it just looked a bit greasy. 

“Er- excuse me, Sir? Are you alright?”, Morse said hesitantly as he walked towards the man. 

He looked up. He was younger than Morse was expecting, perhaps early forties, and his face was gaunt, pale, the beginnings of dark purplish circles forming under his eyes. 

“Oh, hello”, he said miserably, “and no, I’m not actually, my show’s ruined.”

When Morse didn’t say anything in response he continued. 

“I got word just a few hours ago that my leading lady has gone and died. What am I supposed to do now?”

Morse frowned. It amazed him how insensitive some people could be. 

“ _ Your _ show?” he asked. 

“Yes, the production of L’Orfeo, I am the co-director and primary funder.” He paused, brow furrowed, “Who are you anyway?”

“DC Morse”, he said, showing his badge, “ I’ve come to talk to you about Miss Mathers, I’m investigating her death.”

“Oh! Well maybe you can tell me what’s happened to her then, seeing as no one on the telephone would tell me anything! That’s thousands of pounds down the drain you know. We’ve had to arrange refunds and send out apologies. It’s been a nightmare. I don’t know why we couldn’t just use someone else. Claudia  _ had _ an understudy you know. But  _ oh no _ , Edward seems to think that without Claudia Mathers, there is no show. Oh, and we had to cancel it out of respect or something.”

It took a lot of restraint for Morse not to roll his eyes in anger at that. “Edward?”

“Edward Loren, the other director.”

“What did you think of Miss Mathers, Mr-?”

“Fullman, Cory Fullman. And she was talented, alright. She was going places. Shame really, she could have been my ride back to the top, but there you go.”

“And personally? What was she like?”

“Ah, I don’t really know her that well to be honest with you. Seemed nice enough, although I know she rubbed some of the cast up the wrong way.”

Morse nodded, scribbling in his notebook. “And can I ask you where you were at around five o’clock yesterday evening?”

“Well, that was my night off, so I was at home wasn’t I, I don’t get much time to kick back and relax, you know.”

“And can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

“No.” He said abruptly. “What’s all this about anyway? What happened to Claudia?”

“As I said, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say at this time,'' he replied, “Is there anyone else about? Mr… Loren perhaps?” He asked, consulting his notepad. 

“ _ Mr Loren _ is at home,'' he said, “left me to deal with all this mess. Useless that man is. But most of the crew are round the back taking the set down. You can go through.”

“Alright, thank you Mr Fullman.”

The theatre was large, grand and striking, red velvet seats swept towards the stage which held a set that once would have been magnificent. Now the stagehands were taking it apart, bit by bit. A castle turret was on the floor and half a painted tree was being carried off. It was a sad sight to see, particularly under the circumstances. 

One of the stagehands dressed in black from head to toe ran up the steps last Morse. 

“Er- excuse me?-“, he started

The stagehand glanced at him warily. “I’m sorry sir but we’re quite busy as you can see,'' he said as he ran off with speed. 

“Yes, I know, I just…” Morse trailed off as he realised he was speaking only to himself. 

“Erm, hi, can I help you?”, said a small and rather timid female voice. 

Morse looked around for the face that matched it, and was met with a very small young woman. She had pretty, but mousy features, a neat blonde plait fell down her black clad back. 

“Er, yes, that would be great, thank you. I’m looking into Claudia Mathers death. DC Morse.” He added, holding out his ID. 

“Lisa Jones, and yes, it’s so sad isn’t it. She was ever so talented. But I’m afraid I’m the wrong person to speak to. This is my first day working at the Playhouse.”

“Quite a day to start”, remarked Morse. 

“You’re telling me. I saw her perform a couple of years ago in London, I was hoping to meet her,” she said sadly. “Some of the cast are here to collect their things and sort everything out. I can take you to them if you’d like?”

“That would be very helpful, thank you.”

Lisa took him round the back of the stage to where the dressing rooms were situated. The lighting was dim, the white electric lamps at the side of the hallway casting an eerie glow. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,'' said Lisa as she turned to go back where they came from. “I think Mr Sauvant is in his dressing room to your left.”

She said ‘Sauvant’ with a strong French accent. 

He knocked on the door to his left, the words  _ Raymond Sauvant (Orpheus)  _ were printed in gold letters on the peeling black paint. 

“Who is it?” said a voice from inside. 

“It’s the police, I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“There was a thump that sounded like something wooden falling off a table and then, “come in.”

Morse entered the small room. A dressing table stood across the one wall that was big enough, a huge mirror spanned above it, a border of old looking light bulbs around the outside. 

Reflected in the mirror was a man who Morse supposed could be considered handsome, but he was all angles, jutting cheekbones and jawline, complete with a thin, elegant moustache curling at the ends. The overall effect was a bit much. His dark hair was slicked back and he had the look of a man desperately trying to seem younger than he really was. 

“I don’t appreciate people barging into my dressing room,'' he said with a slight softness to his accent. French, Morse assumed. 

“My apologies, Mr Souvant, but I’d like to ask you a few questions about your co-worker, Claudia Mathers.”

“It’s  _ Sauvant, _ he said correcting Morse’s attempt at his name with an exaggerated French accent. Morse decided he would try and avoid saying his name altogether front then on. “I assume you have some ID.”

Morse showed him his badge. “DC Morse. I would just like to know if you noticed anything… strange about Miss Mathers over the past couple of days.”

“No. Not that I noticed. She was her usual impossible self.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I did not like her. She was an ok singer and actress, yes, but she thought the world revolved around her.”

Morse thought that was a bit rich from what he had gathered about Sauvant’s personality. 

“She did not have time for other people, and she did not want to share the stage.  _ I’m  _ Orpheus you know,  _ I’m  _ the star of the show! But that’s not what she thought. Alas, I am sad she’s dead, and not just because my show is cancelled, but because she  _ did  _ have talent. And I respect talent.”

At that point a woman came into the room. “Raymond, have you seen my earrings? I must have left them- oh!”

The woman stopped in her tracks as she saw Morse standing there. She was very beautiful, dark brown hair cut stylishly into a bob that framed her elegantly structured face with pristine curls. Her eyes were big and emerald green and seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. She seemed to be positively  _ dripping _ with glittering jewels, from her dress, her ears, hair. The overall result was hypnotising, if not a little much for Morse’s taste. 

“Sorry, Margo darling, this is Detective Morse, he was asking about Claudia.”

“Lovely to meet you,'' she said, her confusion melting into a breathtaking smile. She held out a bejewelled hand and Morse took it. “Margo Fullman”, she said. 

“I was just telling the detective here how difficult Claudia was.”

“Oh now, Raymond, it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead”, she turned to Morse. 

“She was difficult to get on with sometimes but she was truly magnificent on the stage.”

“So I’ve heard”, muttered Morse. Sauvant gave a ‘humph’. 

“Oh, Raymond was just jealous,” the woman remarked, “she had a way about her, stole the show every night.”

“And what is your involvement in the show Ms Fullman?” 

“Oh, Margo, please! I am here for moral support. I’m the wife of the director, Cory Fullman. In fact I do suspect he’s waiting for me.”

“Before you go can I ask you both where you were at around 5 o’clock last night? Entirely for the record, of course,” said Morse. 

“We were out together,'' said Sauvant, “I was celebrating my birthday at Harlow’s just up the road.”

“Yes it was an enjoyable evening,'' said Margo, “but I must go. I do hope you find what you’re looking for, Inspector. Claudia’s death is a huge loss to the world.” And with a glittering swish of her gown, she was gone. 

Morse looked after her curiously. “You and Mrs Fullman-“ he said to Sauvant. 

“Old friends,” he said, “ we worked together for many years. She was an incredible opera singer once, you know. A few years ago she got a nasty throat infection and a bad operation, and her voice hasn’t been the same since.”

_ Sad,  _ Morse thought,  _ to have your whole career ripped away from you like that.  _

_ “ _ Thank you, Mr Sauvant”, he tried to say it with his best French accent, “you’ve been very helpful.”

As he was making his way out of the theatre after interviewing a couple of the stagehands, turning up nothing of interest, he almost walked into a harassed looking man. 

“Sorry, sir,'' said Morse. 

“No, no, entirely my fault,'' he replied. He was wearing a pair of casual trousers and a shirt which looked like it hadn’t been ironed in a long time. His salt and pepper hair was a mess, sticking up every which way and he had a haggard look about him, as if he hadn’t slept in days. It was a stark contrast to formal clothing the actors seemed to wear and the smart uniforms of the stagehands. “Although,” he said, brow furrowing, “members of the public aren’t really allowed in here outside of performance times.”

“I’m DC Morse, I’m here investigating the death of Claudia Mathers.”

The mans face dropped, making him look even more depressed and several years older. “I’m Edward Loren,” he said. 

“Oh you’re one of the directors!”

“Yes,” he said distractedly. “What happened to Claudia? No one’s telling us anything.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been instructed to withhold information for now as it could interfere with the investigation, sir.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his already messy hair. 

“What was your relationship with Miss Mathers, Mr Loren?” Said Morse kindly. 

“Oh, purely professional.”

Morse nodded and scribbled in his notebook. 

“She was truly wonderful, you know. Beautiful, talented, interesting.” He buried face in his hands, “God, this whole thing is just a huge mess.”

“Mr Loren, you can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt Miss Mathers, can you? Any enemies?”

“Why?” he demanded looking up suddenly. You’re- you’re not saying she was…  _ murdered,  _ are you?”

“As I said, I’m not at liberty to release any information at this time.”

Loren stared at him for a couple of seconds and then answered. 

“She was what held the show together. She rubbed some people the wrong way, I know that, but no one would want to hurt her that I know of.”

“Alright, thank you Mr Loren, I’ll be off now.”

He stared after Morse as he walked away, a sad, lonely and lost expression on his face. An expression of someone who had lost someone who meant much more to him than just a work colleague. 


	3. Chapter 3

“You should go home, Morse,'' said Thursday as he passed Morse’s desk on the way out, “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” he said, “I’ll go home in a bit.”

“Come on, I’ll take you.”

Morse looked up at him and considered the offer. Two days had passed since he went to the Oxford Playhouse and nothing more had turned up in the way of clues. They had put a plea out in the paper for anyone with any information to come forward, but it was one of those infuriating cases where all they could do was wait for more evidence to turn up, or look over the information he already had. It was slow going and Morse and Thursday had nothing. 

He sighed deeply. 

“Ok… thanks.”

He got up and took his coat from his chair. 

“Look, Morse, I know it’s frustrating, but we’re doing everything we can.”

“I know, but he said he would kill again. I just want to do Claudia Mathers justice. She died so horribly.”

“I know,'' said Thursday, “I know, lad”

The next morning Morse was woken up early, too early, by the phone ringing. He got out of bed with sleep-ridden eyes and barely caught the phone on its last ring. 

“Morse”. 

“Morning, Morse, it’s Thursday. You better come quick, there’s been another murder and it looks like it could be connected to the Mathers case.”

“Where?”, he answered immediately. 

“We’re on the corner of Bridge Street.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

He put the phone down and dressed as quickly as possible. 

Ten minutes later he was briskly walking towards the small group of policemen. They had blocked off the whole street with tape and DeBryn was, as usual, standing next to a body. 

Morse felt the familiar wave of nausea as he saw the face of a man he only spoken to two days previous. His head had caved in, blood covering the wound and pooling around his body which wasn’t in a much better condition. Like Claudia Mathers, his chest lay in tatters, blood and guts and organ spilling out in a most undignified fashion. 

“Warn me next time would you!” He exclaimed, as he turned around, his face green. 

“Sorry, Morse, you alright?” said Thursday who was standing to the right of DeBryn. 

“It’s Cory Fullman,'' Morse said. 

“From the Opera?” asked Thursday. 

“Yes, he was a co-director and core funder for the opera Claudia Mathers was in.”

“Interesting,” commented DeBryn, “well it’s definitely connected, the poor man’s heart is missing.”

Morse went pale and swayed slightly on the spot. Thursday edged closer to him, ready to catch him if he took a nosedive. 

“You’re alright, just don’t go opening any mysterious packages, ey?”

Morse nodded. He didn’t think he could go through that again. The case was horrible enough without getting body parts delivered to him through the post. 

“I would say he died around an hour ago,” DeBryn said, “he died from the initial head injury, different from Miss Mathers, and then his heart was ripped out after he was deceased. A much better way to go.”

“Luckily it was a uniform patrol that spotted him this time,'' said Thursday “he’s still pretty shaken, I took his statement and sent him home for the day.”

“Well have to tell his wife,'' said Morse, “Margo Fullman, I met her the other day.”

“Anything else we should know, Doctor?”

“Not for the moment.”

“How could this happen?!”

Margo Fullman’s pretty face was streaked with tears, her eyes blotchy red. “First Claudia and now Cory. Detective, you have to tell me what’s going on.”

“Our sincerest apologies Mrs Fullman, but it’s crucial to our investigation that we do not release any information at this point. We can tell you however, and I truly am sorry to, that he was a victim of homicide.”

The Fullman’s living room was magnificent; grand and well designed. Morse and Thursday sat on a large dark leather sofa whilst Margo sat on a replica on the far side of a polished mahogany coffee table. 

But the truly breathtaking thing about the room was the great glass windows overlooking a beautifully kept garden. A fountain centred it, paths swirling outwards and lined with a variety of shaped hedges. They really were a work of art, thought Morse. A centaur raised his bow to the sky while a unicorn with an impressive, finely trimmed horn galloped towards the horizon, never to reach its destination. There was a stalk, a dolphin, a gain, amount several others and the overall effect was rather beautiful, if not a little eerie. 

At Thursdays words Margo let out a dramatic wail. “I knew it! From the way you were talking. And Claudia too?”

“Unfortunately so.”

She blew her nose loudly on her handkerchief and her bejewelled black dress glittered impressively in the light of the huge glass chandelier. Morse had to admit, she was putting on _quite_ a show. 

“Do you know of anyone who would want to  _ hurt  _ your husband Mrs Fullman?” Morse asked. 

“Oh, I can’t imagine anyone who would want to hurt him. Just like Claudia,” she sniffled. 

Morse looked around the room. They obviously had a lot of money to live in a place like this, and to fund an opera.

There were several photographs on the mantelpiece showing the the Fullman’s in various beautiful and sometimes exotic locations. One showed Margo Fullman standing next to Edward Loren. They were both dressed up, Margo in a beautiful glittering ball gown and Loren looking significantly less disheveled as when Morse had last seen him, in a tuxedo. They both looked like they might be around 10 years younger. 

“When was this taken,” asked Morse, walking over to the photograph and picking it up. 

“Oh, a memory from the good old days. Edward was directing in the Royal Opera House and I was the lead. We were high flyers once you know.” 

_ ‘The Royal Opera House?’  _ thought Morse, ‘ _ high flyers is an understatement.’ _

He moved on and his eyes fell on a small framed photograph. It was in full colour and captured the bright beautiful auburn of Claudia's hair as she laughed, not a care in the world. A frame of time, a captured moment of happiness forever trapped in its glass frame. 

“I thought you said you weren’t friends with Claudia Mathers”, said Morse, looking back round at the sobbing woman. 

“What?- oh yes, that was taken a few years ago”. She had stopped her theatrics now and looked down at her lap. 

In the photo, Margo stood next to Claudia, laughing elegantly. They stood in front of a large opera house. 

“Another opera?” asked Morse. He knew she was hiding  _ something _ , and he was determined to get it out of her. 

“Yes, Claudia and I were performing together back then.”

“So you  _ do  _ know her well?”

“Well… I suppose. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“That’s not what you told me a couple of days ago,'' Morse said in an accusatory voice. Thursday cringed slightly inside. Morse did have a harsh way about him and it wasn’t particularly helpful when questioning an upset suspect. 

“My husband has just  _ died!” _ Margo went back to her theatrics, and shot a nasty look at Morse. “I think you should leave.”

Thursday decided then was a good time to come to the rescue. “He meant nothing by it Mrs Fullman, we are sincerely sorry about your husband and would appreciate the opportunity to question you further.”

“I said I’d like you to leave”, Margo said quietly with a kind of forced calm. 

“Of course.”

Morse and Thursday were guided through the huge, ornamented hallway and out the large oak front door.

“I wonder what that was about,'' said Morse, “she practically  _ threw  _ us out after I asked about Claudia.”

“Well you could have handled it a little more delicately, Morse,” Thursday said with a sigh. 

Morse frowned. “Well it needed to be said. She was hiding something, and she definitely knew Claudia better than she let on. Why would she hide something like that?” He said the last part to himself. 

“Not to mention she was being so dramatic, I couldn’t tell if she was actually shocked at the news.”

“That’s the problem when half your suspects are actors,” replied Thursday with a sigh. 

Strange met them as soon as they walked into the station. 

“Another package came for you, Morse. I sent it straight to DeBryn. It was the same brown paper and type on the front, same size as well.”

Morse felt sick.  _ Why _ were these packages being sent to  _ him?  _ And what did the murderer have to gain from sending evidence to the police? Morse doubted he actually felt any remorse for what he’d done. He tended to think of murderers as emotionless beings. Perhaps it was easier to deal with locking them away for life. Easier to think they were pure, black and white evil. 

“I’ve gotta go, matey, but good luck with it, and be careful ey?”

“Thank you, Strange,” said Thursday. 

Morse sat down heavily at his desk. 

“Well sort this out, lad, don’t you worry.”

They met DeBryn at the mortuary. As usual, it was cold and sterile, not a place the detectives cared to stay for long. 

“Well, Strange was right; the package contained the heart of one Cory Fullman. Along with another message of which I thought you might want to take a look.”

Thursday took the folded piece of paper and read it over. 

“Well? What does it say?” Said Morse. 

Thursday looked up at him and then down at the paper again. He paused for a moment before he started to read. 

“ _ His heart was black as ink. What bloody man is that? _

_ I have a thirst for blood that cannot be quenched. Stop me before it’s too late.” _

Morse let out an agonising groan and turned away, running his hand over his face. 

“There’s something else you should see”, said DeBryn. He lead them over to an object covered in some sort of dark black goo. 

“What… what’s wrong with it?” asked Morse. 

“Well, the heart has been covered with black ink, as you can see. It’s mixed with the blood hence the odd texture. I imagine it’s to go along with the note.”

“We have to stop this,” Morse said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. 

“Yes,” Thursday replied, “Yes, we do.”

“I’m here about Cory Fullman, he was killed this morning.”

Morse was in the home of Edward Loren. It was noticeably less glamorous than that of the Fullmans. His living room was small, cozy, a fireplace was crackling away, welcoming him from the bleak outside. Loose pages of script cluttered the surfaces and several empty liquor bottles lay about the place. 

He launched straight into the issue at hand, no time to be delicate, no time for pleasantries. 

“God,” Loren said, shocked, “what’s going on?! I assume this is connected to Claudia.”

“Yes, it does seem to be,” Morse continued. “I have to ask, where were you around 4 o’clock this morning?”

“I was asleep… here,” he added. 

“I’m guessing no one could vouch for that.”

“Well… no,” he said, gesturing around the room, “as you can see, I pretty much live a life of solitude.”

“No bad thing,'' said Morse. “What was your relationship like with Mr Fullman”.

“I’m not going to lie to you, detective, we didn’t get on.”

“In what way?”

“Let’s just say ‘director’ is a loose term to describe what he was. But he funds it and, as you have probably noticed that I'm not as wealthy as I once was.”

“Mrs Fullman told me you directed at the Royal Opera House! I must say that’s quite an achievement.”

“Better days, better days.”

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how  _ did _ you come to be directing a small time performance in the Oxford Playhouse?”

“You know how things are. Ten years ago I was at my prime. We all were, I think. Things just sort of… settled down.”

“I see.” Morse paused, thinking back to how Thursday was always critiquing his lack of tact, but he decided to go ahead with his next question anyway. He needed all the information he could get. 

“Mr Loren… were- were you in love with Miss Mathers?” he asked carefully. 

Loren looked stricken. 

“What? No! No, of course not!”

“I’m sorry, I just thought- from your reaction when she died, the way you spoke about her. And I was wondering if she was the reason you came to direct this particular opera.”

To Morse's surprise, Loren sighed deeply and buried his face in his hands. 

“No it’s nothing like that. It-“, he sighed again “Well I suppose I should have to tell you. She was my daughter.”

Morse raised his eyebrows in surprise. Whatever he was expecting, it was not that. “Daughter? It said in her file she was an orphan.”

“She didn’t know,'' he said shamefully. 

“How?” asked Morse. 

“I only realised she existed a few months ago. I had a fling in college, Mila Mathers. Never saw her again. Her parents came to me this year and told me after she died and, well, I had to see her daughter- our daughter. I saw she was an opera singer, she had gone into the world of theatre and music, just like me! So I made myself director of this, I saw she lived in Oxford, and cast her as the lead. Margo helped me out by getting Cory to fund it, and it all came together. It was going so well, but then- then she died before I could tell her.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Loren.”

He buried his head in his hands once more and started to sob quietly. “I never knew before. If I did- well we both would have been so much happier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading this far! I’m very much enjoying writing this and the comments so far are greatly appreciated. I am not an experienced writer, I’m just trying something new but would love to improve, so any feedback, critical or otherwise is always very welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

Morse knew immediately that something was wrong as he stepped through Raymond Sauvant’s door. 

For one, it wasn’t locked, despite the fact there was no answer when he had knocked. He wouldn’t have entered, but the hallway light was on, which struck him as a little odd if no one was home. But it was more just a  _ feeling _ . Something about the meticulous neatness and the complete lack of character in the house, something Morse didn’t expect from someone like Sauvant. There was an air about the place, something was definitely off. 

It was already late in the day and with the days getting shorter, the light was fading fast outside the windows, so the hall light provided the only visual aid as he started to look through the rooms. 

The house really  _ wasn’t  _ what Morse would have expected from the actor. He wasn’t sure what he  _ had  _ expected, perhaps something a little more dramatic, eccentric. But there wasn’t even any colour. Everything was a shade of grey. Boring. 

It was when he was about to enter the gleaming, tidy kitchen to check if anyone was home when he heard the noise. A kind of muffled squeal from upstairs. Morse stopped in his tracks. 

His heart started fluttering against his ribcage as he looked back towards the staircase. That definitely sounded like a person. A person in distress. 

He climbed the carpet clad stairs slowly, careful to not make a noise. He was just beginning to think that maybe he had imagined the sound when he heard it again. This time it was plainly clear that it was a woman, and she didn’t sound happy. 

As he crept towards the bedroom door, the sound became distinguishable as muffled sobs. His heart lept and he burst through the door, a sudden thought going through his head last minute that he hoped very much that he wasn’t interrupting some weird sex game. 

Unfortunately, while that would have been awkward, Morse definitely would have preferred that to the disturbing sight before him. 

Lisa Jones, the small and rather sweet stagehand from the Oxford Playhouse was huddled in the corner, tears streaming down her face. Her hands were tied behind her back with some rope and she was gagged with a wad of material. 

Morse ran over to her, untying her immediately. She took the gag out of her mouth and her sobs were no longer muffled. She clung to Morse, looking for comfort in anything she could. 

“Miss Jones? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“He… you need to go… quick you need to help her- you have to go!” She said in between loud sobs. 

“What are you talking about?” said Morse, eyes wide, is it Sauvant? What’s he going to do?”

“I found out,” she sobbed, “I found  _ photos-  _ horrible, _ horrible  _ photos. Claudia Mathers, there was blood everywhere and Mr Fullman too- You have to go!”

“Miss Jones, please, you have to tell me, where do I have to go, what’s he going to do?”

“He said- he said he’s going to find Margo Fullman and rip her heart out!” at those horrific words, she broke down completely, and Morse knew he wasn’t going to get much more out of her.

“Where? Miss Jones, please, you  _ need to tell me where. _ ” 

“The Playhouse,” she wailed. 

Morse ran down stairs at top speed at picked up the phone sitting in the hallway. 

“DCI Thursday speaking.”

“Sir, it’s Morse, I need a medical team and some officers down at Raymond Sauvant’s house immediately.”

“Ok but what-“

Morse slammed the phone down and ran out the door. 

  
  
  


His adrenaline was pumping when he got out of the taxi cab in front of the Oxford Playhouse. When he had first seen it, he thought it looked elegant, attractive. Now it’s pale gothic features loomed out of the darkness, beckoning him towards the unknown horrors it held inside. 

He pushed the big glass doors, and they gave way easily. Morse cursed under his breath. The building should have been locked up. There were no performances running for weeks and there shouldn’t be any staff around at this time in the evening. 

The lobby was dark and seemed a lot bigger and more empty than usual. Morse kept his eyes fully peeled, ready for something, or rather  _ someone,  _ to attack from one of the darkest corners of the room. 

That’s when he noticed the main doors to the theatre stalls were standing slightly ajar, the warm glow of gas lamps penetrating the darkness of the lobby. The darkness won out. 

He cautiously walked over and peered through the crack between the door and the frame, but he couldn’t see anyone in there. He pushed the door open more and he cringed as the old oak wood creaked slightly. 

A loud clatter echoed through the finely tuned acoustics of the theatre, and Morse’s breath caught in his chest. 

‘ _ To hell with sneaking around,’ _ he thought. 

“Who’s there? It’s the police, show yourself.”

Nothing. 

The curtains were down on the stage which struck Morse as odd, and the lights in the theatre were dim, not quite reaching the darkest corners. 

“Mr Sauvant?”

“Help-“ the desperate scream was cut off and Morse raced towards the stage where it had come from. He recognised that voice. It was Margo Fullman, and she was in trouble. 

He ran around the side of the orchestra pit, and up the steps at the side of the stage. He jerked back the heavy, red velvet curtain. 

The stage was empty. 

Morse frowned, he could have  _ sworn  _ he had heard them there. Perhaps they went backstage. 

“Detective Constable Endeavour Morse! How nice of you to join us.”

The voice, full of the confidence that only comes from being an experienced actor, had the  _ slightest _ hint of a French accent. And it came from  _ above  _ him. 

He looked up into the gradienting gloom and there, on the scaffolding that spanned the length of the stage to hold the stage lights, stood Margo Fullman. Her curls had come loose and her usually perfect makeup was smudged and streaming, another glittering bejewelled red dress slightly ripped and ruffled up at the bottom, as if she had been dragged through a bush - or rather up into the ropes of a theatre stage. 

Behind her, holding what looked like a ruby encrusted dagger to her throat, was Raymond Sauvant. He was wearing a tuxedo, his hair gelled back and his moustache neatly curled at the ends. A monster of a machete was at his waist, position in the way a sword would be. It was quite a sight, something from straight out of an opera, in fact. 

“I’ve been watching you, Morse. I was there, you know, on the street next to McNally’s.” He laughed. “You should probably fire your patrol officers. I was waiting and watching in the dark. You were so expressive, so  _ affected  _ by poor Claudia’s death. I just knew you were the one to receive my packages. You complete my show Detective.”

“Please, Sauvant, let her go, you don’t have to do this.”

“But this is my big  _ finale _ . People kept saying that  _ Claudia  _ was the star of the show, it should’ve been  _ me,  _ so I created my own performance, one where there was no question of who was the leading role. It took me a while to organise, the hearts in the boxes, the notes, the  _ mystery.  _ I think it has all turned out rather well. Really you were meant to find her  _ after  _ I had gone, hanging from the top of the stage, her heart ripped from her chest. She’s so beautiful isn’t she, can you imagine it? A perfect ending.”

Margo whimpered, tears dropping from her face, all the way down to the floor of the stage.

“Did you find Lisa? She was rather a loose end. She was snooping, you see, in my dressing room. Figured it out. Luckily I got to her before she could tell anyone.”

“ _ Let her go,  _ Sauvant _ .” _

“Why don’t you join me up here and stop me?” Morse stared up at him. He was at a loss of what to do, they were way out of his reach and all he could do was stand there and listen to his taunts. 

“Well come on,'' said Sauvaunt. He smiled and pressed the knife into Margo’s throat, a bead of blood dropped down onto the neck of her dress. She cried out. “You don’t strike me as the type to turn down an opportunity to be the hero.”

Morse made a snap decision, the only one he could think of, and ran into the wings of the stage. He didn’t know how to get up to the scaffolding, but the steep metal spiral staircase hidden amongst various props and ropes and pulleys seemed like a good bet. He ran up the steps, using the handrail to pull himself up two at a time and he reached a platform at the top that looked out onto the terrifyingly narrow scaffolding over the stage. 

The two actors were still in the same position and Sauvant turned to look at him. Margo just stared at the ground below in terror. 

Morse wasn’t too fond of heights himself, and the stage floor looked awfully far away from up there.

“Well, come on, Morse, aren’t you going to come and rescue the damsel in distress?” 

Morse looked at him, then looked at the ground, then at Margo. He took a deep breath. 

He was going to have to do this, and the sooner he got Margo out of this situation, the better. 

“You are so naturally expressive, detective. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint. I can see every expression that crosses your mind. Your life’s script is written in the lines of your face.”

“Why kill Claudia Mathers and Cory Fullman? What did it accomplish apart from contributing to your sick game?” asked Morse, doing anything to distract Sauvant as he worked out how to scale the length of scaffolding that would get him to Margo. 

Unfortunately, Margo decided that it was time that she contributed to the conversation. 

“He was jealous,” she squealed. It soon turned into a scream as the knife was pressed further into her neck. 

“ _ Shut up,”  _ he said through his teeth, “your relationship with that bitch was  _ wrong _ and you know it. She had to go.”

A dawning realisation suddenly hit Morse. “Mrs Fullman, you were more than just friends with Claudia weren’t you.”

She let out a stifled sob. Morse stepped cautiously onto the first rung of scaffolding, ignoring the dizzying vertigo and determinedly not looking down. 

“It was bad enough when she chose that stupid, rich, arrogant prick over me, but at least I could sort of understand that. He had money after all. But then she went off with that cocky ginger bitch. God, she wasn’t  _ that  _ good, but everyone thought she was  _ so  _ marvellous. My darling Margo here couldn’t take her eyes off her. ”

“You’re in love with her,” Morse said suddenly. How had he not seen  _ that.  _

“I thought you were better than that, detective. You have quite a reputation. I’m disappointed you didn’t figure that out.”

Morse was steadily making his way towards them. That explained why he hadn’t killed her yet. He was reluctant to kill the woman he loved. 

“After Claudia was gone, the only thing that stood in my way was Cory Fullman. He called himself a director. He did nothing. He was the money and that’s it, Loren and the actors were the  _ real _ brains behind the show. He deserved to die. He had no purpose in this world.”

“So why kill the woman you love?” Morse asked desperately? The climb was slow going and he was worried he wasn’t going to make it to them in time. 

“_She turned me down. _After all that. I killed for you, Margo, _how _could you not love me?” The knife went in deeper and Margo let out a screech. Blood was flowing down freely from the blade now. 

But Morse had reached him, finally, and Sauvant had still not made a move to kill her. Morse was getting seriously concerned at the amount of blood at Margo’s throat, he couldn’t afford to let the knife slip any further. 

“Please, Mr Sauvant, you don't want to kill her. I can see that you don’t.”

Sauvaunt said nothing. His eyes were darting around now, his confidence sapping away. 

“I love you Margo,” he said quietly, barely more than a whisper, “why can’t you love me back?”

“I’m sorry Raymond,” said Margo, her voice full of genuine fear and sadness. 

Sauvaunt let out a sob and dropped the knife from her throat. He couldn’t kill her.

“I suppose I’ll just have to find another star for my grande finale,” he said, and suddenly Sauvaunt swivelled in the narrow ledge and pointed the knife at Morse instead. 

Morse almost lost his footing at the turn of events as he tried to take a step back. 

“Hold on, Mrs Fullman, help will come soon.”

And that was when Morse realised what a complete idiot he had been. He had completely forgotten to tell Thursday where he was going in his rush to save Margo. He would just have to hope that Lisa was coherent enough by now to tell them. 

He would have put his hands up in surrender, but he was worried about losing his balance. 

“They’ll find you here, Morse, hanging by your neck from the very beam you were killed on, your chest in tatters and your heart  _ ripped out _ .”

Sauvant then launched himself at Morse, and Morse side stepped him, not remembering in his haste that there was nothing  _ to  _ the side. 

His heart was in his throat as he lost his balance completely and started to topple the long way to the theatre floor. He cried out and tried to grab the very person who had tried to murder him for support, but instead of regaining his place on the scaffolding, he brought Sauvant down with him, and they both toppled to the ground. 

The fall seemed to last forever, the two men twisting in the air as they both let out a scream, mixed with Margo’s who was still clinging to the middle of the beam. 

And then  _ crash! _ They hit the ground.

  
  
  


Morse opened his eyes. There was a ringing in his ears and he tried to lift his head to see what was causing it. His brain was a cloud of confusion and then-

“Aghh”

Pain hit him like a train smashing through a barrier on a track and the ringing gave way to a high pitched scream. 

_ Margo,  _ he thought. He hoped she was ok, from the way she was screaming it didn’t seem like it. 

He tried to turn on his back so he could see up to her. That’s when he realised he was lying on something slightly softer than the ground should be. 

He managed to shift his body around and off the soft object, letting out an agonising scream as every muscle and bone and fibre of his being told him to  _ stop moving _ . 

He looked up. Margo was still clutching the scaffolding with all four limbs, her dress flowing beneath her. She was still screaming and had her eyes closed tightly. 

He turned his head to his right, to where he had just been lying, and immediately had to manoeuvre his body to the side as he violently threw up. 

Raymond Sauvant was dead. He lay on his back, his eyes wide in an expression of severe panic, held even in death. His legs stuck out in weird directions, clearly broken, and a bone had ripped it’s way out of his shin grotesquely. The sharp tip of his machete poked through his chest where his heart would be. He had clearly fallen on it as he hit the ground, a pool of blood was slowly spreading outwards. 

A sob escaped Morse as he desperately tried to turn his body away from the grotesque sight. He wouldn’t,  _ couldn’t  _ look at it anymore. But the ringing in his ears was back and his vision swam, pain flaring up to heights of which he had never experienced. 

He crawled, or more like dragged himself away as much as he could, probably only a couple of inches, but it felt like miles. Something was wrong with his arm, it felt like daggers every time he tried to move it. He collapsed again, his body physically incapable of moving another centimeter. The edges of his vision grew dark and the screaming from above came back in waves, the sound warping in and out. He closed his eyes. 

_ I’m going to die _ , he thought, and he found that he didn’t mind so much as long as the pain went away. 

“Morse!”

He heard that. Someone shouting his name. It was a familiar voice too, comforting. 

“Someone call an ambulance!” it shouted. 

He felt hands on his side, turning him over into his back. He managed to open his eyes just a slit to see a blurry figure standing over him. 

“He’s alive!”

_ Was he? _

“Morse? It’s ok, lad, just hold on.”

His eyes closed and the pain started to filter away, away, along with his consciousness. 


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing Morse felt when he woke was the pain. It ensnared him, the very air he breathed turning against him, suffocating him, ever present, no escape. 

He groaned. 

“Morse?”

That was Thursday, he thought. But the pain was so bad and his eyelids heavy and he couldn’t open them, no matter how hard he tried. 

A deep fog clouded his brain, and he couldn’t think. 

Eventually he did manage to open his eyes, just a slit. He was in a narrow bed, with light blue sheets. The air was thinner than usual and smelt sterile. He had been in a place like this before, yes. But where?

The hospital. That was it. 

It took so much energy to think, to beat the fog. 

Thursday wasn’t there anymore. That was odd, he could’ve sworn he heard him there just a second ago. Or was that an hour? There was a chair sat by the bed but it was empty apart from a newspaper. 

He vaguely thought about doing the crossword but he couldn’t even move his arm to reach for it, let alone complete it. 

He tried anyway. When he did, an overwhelming wave of pain hit him. He cried out and desperately tried to cling to consciousness, but the word was already swimming before his eyes and he just managed to catch a blurred glimpse of some nurses rushing to his bedside before he was lost to the darkness once more. 

The second time he woke, the pain was a little more bearable. It was still there, oh yes, the pain was ever present, but it seemed distant, like he was rising above it. 

He tried to open his eyes but the light was too bright and a flash of pain stabbed at his skull. 

“Agh” he cried gently. 

“Morse?”

That was definitely Thursday. 

He tried to open his eyes again, slowly so that he could get used to it. The light still burned his retinas but he bore through it. 

Thursday was sitting in the chair, the one that had previously just held a newspaper. He looked concerned, his brows furrowed together and his eyes peering over at his colleague. 

“What happened?” Morse asked. He really  _ was  _ struggling with his memory. 

“You don’t remember?”

Morse thought for a moment. 

“Raymond Sauvant. Is he dead?” His voice came out weak and hoarse. 

He nodded gruffly. “And I can’t say I’m all that sorry about it. That said, what a way to go, falling on your own machete.” He paused for a moment and looked at Morse again worriedly. 

“How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” Morse said after a while. “How long have I been here?”

“Just under twenty-four hours. You’ve got a nasty concussion, and your arm’s broken in two places. Severe bruising all over your body. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

A pause. 

“I fell,'' Morse said. He remembered a little more now. He remembered that feeling of falling, of being out of control and having nothing to stop him. It was terrifying. 

“Several feet. You  _ wouldn’t  _ have survived if you hadn’t fallen on top of Sauvant.”

“Huh,” he said, smiling slightly. 

“What?” said Thursday, frowning. 

“I suppose he sort of saved my life in the end.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t say that, particularly as he was the one trying to kill you in the first place.”

Morse was silent for a bit as he tried to get his thoughts in order. That’s when he remembered. 

“Margo Fullman. Is she alright?”

Thursday’s face relaxed a little at that. 

“She’ll be fine,” he said, “I spoke to her a few hours ago when she was released. She was worried about scarring on her throat, and I dare say she’ll have some hellish nightmares, but she’ll be fine, Lisa Jones too. As soon as we got to her she told us what had happened. Seems like Sauvant  _ did  _ want some souvenirs after all. He took photographs of his victims after he killed them and stupidly left them in his desk at the Playhouse. He must have remembered and gone back to get them, and that’s when he found Lisa.”

Silence again. Thursday was staring at him with an odd expression on his face. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

“You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?”

Morse was taken aback. “Sir, I-“

“You know the rules. You  _ tell _ people where you’re going, and you  _ certainly  _ don’t go after a violent criminal without backup.” Thursday’s voice was gradually getting louder as he released all the worry and anger from the past twenty-four hours. “What if that girl hadn’t told us where you had gone? You’d be dead for sure. That man was a lunatic, God knows what you were thinking, Morse.” He was practically shouting now and a passing nurse gave him a glare. 

Morse looked away guiltily. He  _ knew _ he had been stupid, but if he’d waited for backup, who knew, Margo Fullman could’ve been dead right now. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I was the only one who could’ve got there in time. And, well, it turned out ok in the end, didn’t it?”

“Margo Fullman received very nearly life threatening injuries, the killer, who should be locked in a cell right now, is in the morgue with a knife in his chest, and, in case you hadn’t noticed,  _ you’re _ lying in a hospital bed, half dead.”

“I hardly think- agh”. Morse had tried to shift himself angrily into a sitting position to better argue his case, but found that it perhaps wasn’t such a good idea as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. 

Thursday just raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, something Morse was very grateful for. He was feeling exhausted, and his ever persistent stubbornness was ebbing away. 

To his surprise, Thursday’s angry expression melted into one of compassion as he watched his bagman struggle to keep his eyes open. 

He gave a sigh. Morse deserves more than a lecture. 

“What you did might have been stupid, but it was also brave. Good job, lad.”

Those words meant more to Morse than Thursday could ever know. 

The pain, and Thursday’s words, and  _ all  _ that had happened crashed in on him suddenly and to his dismay he had to look away from the Inspector as the back of his eyes began to prickle. 

“I’ll let you get some rest, Morse, you must be exhausted.”

He glanced at the young detective. He looked so frail, so weak in that moment, his head bandaged, face pale and his arm in a sling. But Thursday knew he was anything but. 

  
  
  


Thursday picked Morse up from the hospital two days later. He was feeling a lot better than when he had first awoken, but he was still suffering from the bruises that covered his entire body and some occasional dizziness from the head wound. Not to mention the fact that his arm would be completely useless for six weeks. 

He tried not to think about the next few weeks. They spanned out before him, a boring nothingness that would consist of bed rest and light desk duties. 

Thursday helped him to the car and drove him home. To say Morse was in a bad mood was an understatement and he sat in silence in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window. 

“You know, you’re lucky Morse, it could-“

“I know, it could’ve been worse,” he grumbled.

Thursday rolled his eyes and they drove on in silence. 

  
  
  


Thursday was more than willing to stay with Morse for a while to see him settled back in his tiny apartment, but Morse shooed him out as politely and as quickly as possible. He wanted to be alone for a bit. It wasn’t something you got to be when in the hospital. There was always someone watching over you, the nurses, doctors, or friends and family, in Morse’s case, Thursday, Strange and once even Mrs Thursday had come to check up on him. As nice as it was to have people who cared, he was relieved to be back home. 

He poured himself a glass of whiskey, a feat with one arm, and eased himself carefully into an armchair, wincing as he did so. 

He had just gotten comfortable, Wagner playing in the background, when there was a knock at the door. 

Morse groaned loudly and just sat for a few more seconds, hating that he would have to get up again. 

_ Knock knock _

“Alright, I’m coming,” he called. 

He eased himself slowly out of the armchair once more, his body protesting with pain, and walked like an old man to the door and opened it. 

There, returned to her former bedazzling glory, was Margo Fullman. 

“Mrs Fullman?” he said, surprised. 

“Margo, please,” she replied. “I just wanted to come and thank you and see if you were ok.”

She wore a long, deep navy blue dress, with silver jewels adorned in a fancy pattern around the side. Her hair and makeup were once again perfect, and she wore a velvet necktie to match her dress, covering what Morse new must be a nasty wound. 

For all intents and purposes, she looked the same, she still stood tall and proud, sure to take the breath out of any room she entered. But there was something in her eyes, something that wasn’t there before. It was something Morse recognised all too well from people who had lost, or been through hell. Something he recognised in himself these days. 

“Come in, come in,” he told her, moving out the way so she could step into the room. 

Morse cringed when she looked around the tiny apartment. Her house was so beautiful, a whole different world, and she looked so out of place as she took a seat on one of Morse’s old armchairs. 

“I like this place,” she said, “it’s characterful.”

_ ‘Well,’  _ though Morse,  _ ‘then I suppose I was worried about nothing.” _

“Drink?”

“Some of that whiskey would be nice,” she replied. 

He poured her a generous amount, and handed it to her then sat down in the chair opposite. 

“How are you, Mrs- Margo?” he asked. 

“Oh, about as well as can be expected I imagine,” she said. “I lost the two people I love, and my best and oldest friend tried to kill me. I suppose that’s not really something you can get over overnight.”

“No I don’t suppose it is,” Morse replied awkwardly. 

“And how are  _ you _ detective?” she asked, her beautiful green eyes seemed to look into his very soul, “I really thought you were dead.”

“Me too,” he said, trailing away. “And it’s Morse, please,” he added. 

“You’re recovering well?” She asked, glancing at his arm. 

“Yes,” he replied, “I should be back to work soon.”

“It’s difficult to know how to thank someone who’s saved one’s life, Morse,” she said with a frown, “a bottle of fine wine doesn’t really cut it.”

“I didn’t do it for the credit,” he replied, embarrassed. 

“Well, I thought about it anyway, I brought out the oldest and finest bottle of Merlot from the wine cellar. But I just couldn’t. You can’t put a price on life, Morse, it’s not right. And so I’m here with nothing.”

‘ _ Shame,’  _ he thought, ‘ _ I would’ve appreciated an expensive wine.” _

“I decided my thanks would mean more by itself, than if I showered you with wealth. I based my life around money, you know. My marriage, my career, I’m just starting to look back on everything and wonder if I could’ve made better choices.”

“Now, It won’t do to regret, and in my opinion, you had a life to admire.”

“I suppose it was  _ quite  _ admirable,” she said with a smile. The smile quickly faded and she looked down at her glass. 

“I’m going to go travelling,” she announced, “I’ve seen the world through opera houses and expensive parties, now I really want to  _ see  _ it. There’s nothing for me here anymore, and while that’s sad, I also feel a sense of freedom I’ve never had before.”

Morse was struck by how alone she was, and he realised the reason she had come to see him, was more than just to say thank you, but because she had no one else to talk to. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said. 

She smiled, “I better be off, I’m leaving tomorrow morning, I was just dropping by.” She got up gracefully, and pretended not to notice Morse being quite the opposite as he got out of his chair. 

She placed her glass on the small coffee table and swept towards the door. 

“Thank you, Morse,” she said with more sincerity than he had ever heard in her usual theatrical words. He knew she meant more than just the drink. 

“It was a pleasure, Mrs Fullman.”

And with that she was gone. 

The room felt empty all of a sudden, like there was something missing. She really had quite the presence. 

Morse turned to his record player and removed the still playing Wagner. He went over and flicked through some of his less worn records and brought out what he was looking for. 

Brahms Symphony No. 2. 

Yes, that was better, he had had  _ quite  _ enough theatrics for a lifetime. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the curtains close! Hope you enjoyed it, thanks for reading! Sorry, I know this chapter didn’t have much of a story line, I just wanted to tie up loose ends.  
Just a side note in case you’re interested, the title of the story comes from a quote from L’Orfeo:  
‘The thing about music was that you never knew the shape of anyone’s desire.’


End file.
